fugitive

the heart is the devil
i pray to, its changes

in weather the butter
i spread on my toast

it loves a standing
ovation, a rainfall

of roses no less
with disregard it calls

a factory strike—
my likeness goes on

wanted signs
throughout town

in the end
there’ll be

no place to hide
from myself

 

In response to Via Negativa: Diarist.

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